


Call It Impulsive, Call It Compulsive

by Ariel Rose (thatchaoticart)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eventual Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:06:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatchaoticart/pseuds/Ariel%20Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Drove downtown in the rain, 9:30 on a Tuesday night, just to check out the late-night record shop."  Steve checks out a new local vinyl records store, where co-owner and employee, Bucky, makes a suggestion.  Natasha, Sam, and Peggy can all see through them both.  Just another AU of these two dorks trying to get together with this poor group of friends watching, probably with popcorn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thinking About What To Think About

**Author's Note:**

> Got the idea for this while on a BNL's "Brian Wilson" repeat binge (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51zsxbB8WS8). I really meant for it to be a one-shot but now it's multi-chaptered and please help me I can't stop...

Steve crumpled up sheet of paper #556 and tossed it into the ever-growing pile in the wastebasket.  Tapping the eraser end of his pencil on the few remaining blank pages of his sketchbook, he amused himself for several minutes by staring at the wooden manikin in front of him.  The manikin stared back almost defiantly, motionless in a ridiculous superhero-esque pose into which Steve had fashioned it.

_I dare you to draw me!_  It taunted Steve, who messily sketched out the scene for warm-up sketch #557.  He sighed, balled up the doodle and finally rubbed his eyes.  Then he looked around for something--anything--to get him back in the mood, first blearily blinking first at the dormant TV, then his half-full bookshelf, before his gaze fell on his record collection.  Of course. 

Just last week, Steve had read a blurb on the city’s news website about a relatively new vinyl shop down on Broadway.  It stuck out in his mind because it was both a record shop and had late hours, closing at 11pm or 12am—something rare for this sleepy, quiet neighborhood full of well-off young professionals and older, settled folks.  Records stores, though picking back up, were still small in number around the area, and Steve had to drive thirty minutes just for the closest one before the one on Broadway opened. 

Luckily it was 9:17, just early enough that Steve would have plenty of time to pick out something he was feeling more than his current set, but not so late he would feel rude.  Broadway was close enough that he felt like walking so he donned a lightweight, zip-up jacket and headed out into the calm October evening.  Just getting out of the apartment and enjoying the wind dragging its insistent fingers against his skin almost convinced his muse to come back—almost.  He briefly considered turning around but pressed on, curiosity nagging at him.

When he reached the record shop the neon cursive in the large window glowed at him warmly, splashing bright red across his face.

**REVOLUTIONS**

**NOW OPEN**

He spotted a small number of customers milling around the aisles and flipping through rows and rows of vinyls through the large front window.  When he entered, the cash register area was empty, no sales associate in sight. 

“Hey, welcome,” called a woman from somewhere off to the side.

Steve spotted her quickly, red hair standing out even among some of the more brightly-decorated customers--like the ones with neon blue and green, etc. streaks.  Leaning back against a row of vinyls casually and in the midst of a conversation with a guy, she looked nice enough; however, Steve got the distinct impression she could be the store’s security despite the laid-back appearance.  Her eyes had a hard look that suggested he’d better not make a wrong move or he’d be booted in seconds flat--literally and figuratively. 

“Lemme know if you need some help.  Sarge is around here somewhere if you can’t find me.” She flashed a grin before returning to her conversation.

Steve offered a ‘thanks' and began browsing.  He could find something enjoyable in every genre of music he’d heard, but he’d always been drawn to big band, jazz, swing, that sort of thing.  His mother had really dug it before she passed and he’d inherited a ton of her records on that occasion.  As a result he’d developed a tenderness for the era.  Tonight was just the sort of night he felt it had the most potential to spark him into doing something other than subpar, uninspired sketches.  Maybe something he could finally sell now that his earnings from his last show were wearing down.

So maybe buying a record wasn’t necessary, but he certainly wouldn’t go hungry from buying one.  Growing up poor and sick with his parents’ income and then just his mother’s relatively meager wages often going toward medical expenses instead of more groceries, he had developed the tendency to make exceptions.  (Given the frequency they probably weren’t exactly exceptions but habits of giving in to impulses--but who’s getting technical?)  Other than that he was frugal, and living by oneself didn’t require much other than utilities and rent.  He felt he deserved to treat himself every now and then, especially in the name of sparking his muse.

Steve flipped through a couple of Cole Porter albums, then Glenn Miller and Bing Crosby.  None by the Rat Pack members, though he was sure he had every song of theirs individually in some capacity.  At some point a man walking by paused in Steve’s peripheral vision but before he could turn, he kept walking on.  He spent a couple more minutes browsing random compilations of various artists from the thirties to the fifties, one of which he finally picked.

As he approached the checkout counter he noticed the other associate was finally back.  He was the guy who had almost stopped to speak to Steve, and nodded as Steve reached him.

“Thanks for coming in,” his voice was deep, hard, and a little friendly all at once.

“I’ve been meaning to since I heard about this place,” Steve offered somewhat apologetically, glancing at his name tag. “So you’re Sarge.”

He wasn’t sure why but even with the friendliness, something about him made Steve a little intimidated (much like the previous employee--were they related or something?).  Sarge wore a black glove on his left hand (fashion statement, or threat?) but otherwise came across as a chill guy.

“Guilty, but it’s just a nickname,” he offered a crooked smile. “Coworkers stuck me with it so you can guess what I did before here.”

If Steve weren’t attuned to noticing details he probably would’ve missed the almost imperceptible flash of something across his eyes.  He figured the glove wasn’t exactly a fashion statement, then.

Just what exactly was making Steve feel so on edge about him?  It wasn’t the heebie-jeebies—that much was for sure.  His ice-blue eyes seemed to suggest more than his outer shell, but Steve brushed that off as his artist side’s wishful thinking.  No...it was more that something about him felt inexplicably familiar.

“Things change pretty fast out in the army.  So I took the money I’d saved up, moved, and opened this.”

Army...that made a whole lot of sense, Steve thought, and could easily picture him in uniform--kicking ass before taking names, giving and following orders.

“I’m Steve, no cool nickname or story,” he smiled though it felt more nervous than Sarge’s had looked; however, talking to him was unnaturally easy (even though Steve usually got along with almost everyone anyway).

“I’m sure I’ll be a regular.”

“Well, since I can call you that now, can I make a recommendation, Steve?” he plucked the vinyl from Steve’s hands and leaned on his elbows, holding it face-up.

“Go for it.  I was indecisive anyway.”

“Badass.  Come with me then,” he stepped around the counter and led Steve back down the aisle of music by decade.

His shoulders were broad and his brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail.  He looked like he’d be interesting to draw, but Steve felt almost embarrassed by the thought.  How would that conversation go?  “Hey, you just met me, but can I draw you?  Even though you could probably snap my neck in a nanosecond without thinking twice about it?  By the way, please don’t do that.  I’m not a creep, for real.”

‘Sarge’ stopped in front of the same row Steve had picked the album from, and promptly put the compilation vinyl back.  He flipped through a few more behind it and plucked a Billie Holiday best-of album titled _The Legendary Lady Day_.

“Track B7, ‘The Very Thought of You.’” He said matter-of-factly. “It kinda gets overshadowed by her more famous ones, for good reason an’ all, but it’s a favorite.  She gets in your head more than any of those on that other album would.”

He handed Steve the record and when their fingers brushed, Steve noticed the contact more than he should have.  He’d just come to the shop for a new album and instead he’d gotten all kinds of weird, sudden, and convoluted feelings.

“I don’t have any Billie Holiday, now that I think about it,” he finally managed. “I’ll make it the first track I listen to.”

“It starts with a really catchy piano bit,” Sarge said as they made their way back to the front of the store.

(Steve wondered if he had also noticed his other coworker looking at them curiously from behind the other register; Steve shot her a stupidly nervous smile before turning to Bucky gratefully.   _Great, probably made it worse_ , he silently chided.)

“You’ll know it when you hear it and don’t be a stranger.  I want your review.  Ten ninety-five.”

“You bet,” Steve smiled again as he headed out the door. “I’ll see you soon!”

Bucky’s coworker made sure the star customer—Steve, was it?—was out of sight before she slapped him on the back with a laugh.  Her earrings, two tiny knives dangling from her earlobes, glittered with the movement.

“Never seen you so one-on-one with someone, James,” she said, earning one of his piercing glares.

“I’m a forties guy, that’s all.  Appreciate good music, something you wouldn’t know about.” Bucky checked the fingernails on his right hand with gusto, Nat’s response a roll of the eyes. “Pretty sure I just made a regular customer too, and not just from flipping my hair and/or threatening him." 

“Yeah, alright,” she didn’t sound convinced, unsurprisingly. “Nothing wrong with being ‘a forties guy’, just a little surprising.  Can’t say I knew that about you.”

“Anyway.  Back to work.   _You_ go get one-on-one with someone.”

-o-

Try as he admittedly didn’t much, Bucky’s brain kept allowing Steve to creep into it: his kind smile, eyes a deeper blue eyes than his own.  Everyday he went to work, hoping Steve would be back in, and he wasn’t.  Shifts seemed to tick by more slowly than ever, and he felt ridiculous for having felt such things so soon.  It wasn’t as though he were friendless; his Army buddy, Sam Wilson, understood him more than most.

Still, Bucky felt compelled to know more about Steve, as if his intense gaze drew him in.  He’d noticed him the first time he came out of the office and glanced around the store: a tall and muscular build but nice in the face, dark blonde hair in a businessman’s cut.  That smile had caused a ripple through Bucky, which he’d forgotten until he was thinking yet again about the interaction, replaying the details time and time again.  Usually guys who looked like that didn’t act as friendly as Steve, at least in Bucky’s opinion--but maybe that was because they saw how relatively unfriendly Bucky looked.

He spent his evenings watching tv idly without absorbing much of it at all, and felt like he should be waiting for the phone to ring (however completely ridiculous the thought was).  He was frustrated with himself for getting so invested in someone he’d probably never see again, but something tugged at him.  He felt warm, like a childhood friend, but Bucky was sure would’ve remembered someone like Steve.

So he decided that Steve was just one of those guys you felt like you’d met before, and relayed this later to Sam during a visit to the gym.

“I’ve gotten that with people, sure,” Sam glanced sidelong at him. “Didn’t know you were a forties fan, though.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Jesus, Nat said the same thing.  Is it that weird?  You’re telling me you don’t like swing and jazz?”

“Psh, don’t talk to _me_ about jazz.  Just didn’t picture it being your type.”

“Not like you’ve been in lately to talk music,” Bucky arched his eyebrows at Sam before taking in a big gulp of breath to exhale when he pushed the weight apparatus handles. “Or to support your friend.”

“Don’t wanna interrupt your bonding with the customers,” Sam shrugged. “You never talk about customers on your off-time, man.  This must be a cool guy.”

“Would you shut up?” Bucky shook his head, glaring again and speaking between reps. “A lot of the customers are predictable, is all.  I wouldn’t have called it for him either.”

“And feeling like you met him before.”

“Yeah,” Bucky released the handles and fixed Sam with a stare. “You’d tell me if that sounded crazy, right?”

Sam leaned down, hands on his knees, to look at Bucky closely.  Bucky never remembered doubting himself this much before he’d returned from overseas, but rationally knew it was a normal reaction.  Continually checking with someone who wouldn’t be afraid to tell him was just one of many unfortunate side effects he’d suffered from having had his brain messed with so rigorously.

“You know I would, but relax.  We’ve all gotten that feeling with someone.”

“Okay,” Bucky picked up his reps again. “Thanks.”

“Why don’t you invite him for drinks sometime?  I’ll be your backup in case he’s crazy.” Sam tried to sound casual but it failed; something about the lilt in his words held a suggestion of something else.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Bucky ungracefully blew a piece of loose hair out of his eyes. “We’ve only talked one time, though.”

“So?  It’s drinks, not a dinner and a movie.”

Bucky’s glare returned. “It’s not a date, either.  What the hell, Sam?”

Sam snorted.

“Uh-huh.  Whatever you say, man.  You were the one who said something about a date.”

Bucky’s response was only a slew of Russian, but Sam could easily use his imagination as to his friend’s choice of words.

-o-


	2. When I'm Surrounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve returns to Revolutions to give Bucky a review. Peggy Carter calls and immediately knows something's up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everybody! Hopefully you enjoy this update as much as the first. Also I've loved that song for forever! Here's a link--not live, I actually don't know if there IS a live version of this. But whatever! (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9yakzL1Q88c)

_you never know how slow the moments go_

_‘til I’m near to you_

_I see your face in every flower_

_your eyes in the skies above_

_it’s just the thought of you,_

_the very thought of you, my love_

 

Steve hummed along as he sketched out the front of the record store, detailing the sign before moving to the counter inside.  He made a mental note to tell the employee who’d helped him of how much he’d listened to it (twenty-two at last count) the next time he made it down to Revolutions.  He depicted the two employees smaller than he would’ve liked for scale, so to the side he sketched more detailed facial exercises.  Yeah...for exercises, definitely the reason.

 

It was completely coincidence, _of course_ , that Steve ended up with more sketches of Sarge than...er, the other one.  He felt a little guilty for not catching her name, but his attention had been pretty quickly diverted, after all.  He took a mental image of his smile and expanded it into what he imagined a full grin looked like on him, how it tugged at his facial muscles and transformed his eyes into something softer.  Not that he had any idea if that was accurate, but he liked drawing him anyway.

 

Of _course_ he made sure it wasn’t much longer before he offered up the review he’d promised.  It had been a few days but not quite a week; though he’d thought of going in sooner, he worried it might seem a little too... _something_ , so he waited.  It was far cooler than the walk to his previous visit, feeling more like October, and the warmth of the small shop made him automatically feel welcome.

 

“Steve, right?”

 

The voice wasn’t the guy’s though, and Steve turned to see the redhead from the other night.  Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and it made her look just a little less intimidating--or maybe that was the smirk playing across her lips.  If she were making an effort to hide it, it wasn’t effective.

 

“Natasha.  Overheard you and Sarge.”

 

She nodded toward the side wall, where Steve noticed a tiny office lighted up behind closed blinds.  He hadn’t even looked around that much before, but that must’ve been where he had been the last time.

 

“If you wanna tell him hey, he’s back there.”

 

“Thanks, I owe him a review.”

 

“So I heard.”

 

Natasha laughed and Steve, though mildly irritated, headed back to the office.  Through the gap in the doorway Steve could see boots perched up on the desk, crossed and rocking back and forth to music (was that Dean Martin’s “Sway” or yet another new cover?) playing softly inside.  Steve knocked before he looked like someone confirming whatever weird suspicions Natasha had and was disappointed to hear the sound cut down.

 

The door swung open to reveal Sarge leaning back in a swivel chair, gloved hand on the doorknob.  A grin spread over his face, not unlike the one Steve had imagined, and he straightened to gesture Steve inside.  Tonight his hair was down and it was wavier than Steve had pictured it, and collar-length.  It somehow suited him—like everything did.

 

He shut the door almost closed again but it didn’t bother Steve.  He felt no more intimidation from him and the office would have been even more cramped with the door open.  He’d also come to pretty decent terms with the feelings he’d developed (not necessarily Feelings, if he’d been kidding himself), and told himself firmly to chill.

 

“You’re killin’ me here, Steve.  What’s the official verdict?”

 

“Well, Sarge, best one off the album.  No question.” Steve leaned back against the wall, as if to attempt to put more space between them.  (Not much good; how small _was_ this place, anyway?)

 

(Correction: he felt no more intimidation from him being potentially scary, but rather from the intensity of his feelings this time around--even stronger than the first time, as if he’d forgotten just how well they’d seemingly connected.)

 

“Her voice is unforgettable.  I was actually wondering if you’ve got any other recordings of it.”

 

“Of course,” His eyes lit up as he nodded. “You’ve found your guy.”

 

He stood up to search through a shelf of records above his desk before pulling out a compilation of live Billie Holiday songs.  Steve dragged a hand through his hair while his back was turned, issuing as quiet of a sigh as possible.   _The choice of words had to have been unintentional,_ he firmly told himself.  No use in delusions or making things out to be more than they were.

 

“Track A3.  They were smart and put it near the beginning this time.  This is my personal copy so I’m only lending it to you on one condition.  Uh, scratch that. Two.” He held it against his chest as he turned back to face Steve.

 

“Um…?” Steve offered cleverly, his mind going a mile a minute.

 

“It’s actually Bucky.  My name.” Bucky continued. “If I’m lending you my best album I gotta be up-front with you about that, first of all.”

 

Somehow this reveal made the cramped space feeling even more intimate, and somehow between the blood rushing through his ears and the thudding of his heart in his throat Steve heard the sound of Natasha’s laughter from far away.   _Just a customer, I’m sure,_ Steve reasoned though he felt paranoid someone else could read all the thoughts racing through his head.  (You know, like Steve was “just a customer”…)

 

“Sarge isn’t really me, y’know?  She just likes annoying me.”

 

He grinned again. “Secondly, I gotta have your number, to get it back.  In case I get to missing her.”

 

He laughed and scratched an eyebrow, as if mulling over his last words.

 

“Look, uh, it’s not a must I guess, but I wasn’t kidding on it being my favorite album.  You know those songs that feel like they musta been written from your soul?”

 

Surely Steve’s heart was beating so loudly Bucky could hear it--Steve was convinced.  They’d really just met and here they were talking about souls and exchanging numbers and beloved records, and Steve felt a little lame for not having anything to offer.  Bucky had given him a new favorite of the jazz era and more importantly, a new muse, of which Steve had been so severely lacking.

 

“No, yeah, of course,” Steve leaned down and grabbed a pen and pad off Bucky’s desk quickly.  He scribbled it down and his name, as if he wouldn’t know but it was too late, and set it back onto the desk before Bucky could notice his hands shaking. “I promise I won't hog it.”

 

“Cool.” Bucky bent, scribbled his own number on the paper, with “Bucky” under it, returning the favor (and so what if it brought a smile to Steve’s face?).  Bucky tore it off and stuck it inside the album cover.

 

“Look, uh, I’m not trying to scare you off or anything,” Bucky said, voice dropping in pitch, sending a shudder through Steve.

 

Steve’s own throat felt too tight for him to speak properly.   _I’m the one who’s be scaring you off,_ he thought, forcing himself to meet Bucky’s gaze.  It had been forever since he’d felt this for anyone, not since Peggy back in high school.  She’d loved him even before he’d gotten over his childhood illnesses, but things hadn’t exactly worked out for them, despite their deep love for one another.

 

Back then it had been the nervousness of first times and adolescence in general and the constant reminder of the fragility of life; this felt like something entirely foreign, more profound somehow.  Maybe age just did that.

 

“No, I—I didn’t think so,” Steve stammered finally. “It’s cool to have a music buddy.”

 

“Yeah but,” Bucky shrugged, “I don’t even know anything about you.  I guess you could be someone to come finish the job.”

 

He laughed but something in it felt forced, different from what Steve had heard before.  He knew soldiers had a hard time readjusting, and if Bucky had just moved here he was bound to feel anxious.  Especially if whatever had happened to his arm had been particularly traumatizing (and how could it not be?).

 

“I’m an artist,” Steve offered, feeling a little unaccomplished.  Here was a man in front of him who’d served his country in war and subsequently opened up a record shop, all the while looking no older than thirty.

 

“Oh yeah?” Bucky raised his eyebrows, actually interested.  Steve expected the usual question (“Can you draw me?” to which he wasn’t sure he could keep from admitting the truth) but instead got another that made him feel a little less panicked. “Like landscapes or comics, or?”

 

“Different things.  Architecture, people, graffiti…whatever catches my eye, I guess.”

 

“You do shows or have a gallery?” Bucky looked genuinely awed, but Steve wasn’t sure if he imagined him leaning in closer or not.

 

“I have before, not a regular one.  I never thought they were _that_ good.”

 

“If you’ve been in shows they’ve totally gotta be.  Come on, Steve, have some confidence!”

 

He leaned to the side and pulled open the blinds to check the line at the counter, which was four people long.

 

“Ah, shit, gotta go.  But hey—call me and let me know how you like the live version!”

 

“Yeah, definitely.” Steve called after him, wondering how he was supposed to get the guts to call Bucky.  Maybe Billie could help him work up the nerve.

 

-o-

 

A few hours into listening to Bucky’s record his phone rang.  He immediately thought the worst, that Bucky was calling to tell him he didn’t trust him anymore and wanted the album back; he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw _Peggy Carter_ splashed across the screen.

 

“Hey, Peggy!”

 

“I’m glad to hear you so chipper,” she greeted in her English accent, a side effect of being raised in the UK for the first twelve years of her life. “Last time you were so busy.”

 

“I recall _someone_ worrying about that,” Steve laughed. “No reminder necessary.  I’m good, Peggy, how are you?”

 

“Oh, you know,” she sighed, “busy as always.  Losing my sanity.  I’ve got a grey hair!”

 

“No way.”

 

“Way.  I’ll show you.  When are you free?”

 

“Pretty much anytime.”

 

“So no gal after all?” she sounded disappointed.

 

“ _No_ , Peggy.”

 

“Okay, how about next Thursday, lunch?  I’ve got so many bloody meetings I’m up to my ears.  Tony Stark loves to hear himself talk--but oh, I digress.”

 

Another sigh. “We’ll order a ton of mimosas.”

 

“Well, you’ve got a deal in that case,” Steve laughed.

 

They chatted a while longer and by the time they hung up, Steve’s cheeks and neck were still flushed from her guess that he was dating someone.  Had he sounded _that_ nervous when he answered the phone?  That was no good if he were to remain cool at all times around Bucky.

 

Bucky...it was a name Steve had never heard except as a nickname, so naturally he was curious as to what his real- _real_ name was.  His mind switched to his lunch date with Peggy, whether she’d be able to confirm something was indeed up.

 

He decided he might as well just tell her he was making fast friends with a record-shop guy/Army vet and see if he could play it off, hide how much he felt drawn to Bucky.  He doubted it--she wouldn’t have the position at S.H.I.E.L.D. that she held if she didn’t keep a close eye on everything--but through hope, held out.

 

Thursday would be a good day to return to the shop too, Steve decided while lying in bed and idly counting the ceiling tiles.  He would call Bucky Wednesday night and ask if it’d be okay, of course it would, and Bucky wouldn’t detect how nervous he felt just thinking about it.  Right?  Then he remembered: mimosas.

 

Mimosas might just save him after all.

 

-o-


	3. Just Listening And Relistening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve works up the nerves to call Bucky, and Bucky pays him a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More slow burn, more thinking deeply about feelings. Just another day in the life.

The days ticked just as slowly by for Steve as they had for Bucky until Wednesday evening rolled around.  Steve had been staring at Bucky’s handwritten numbers and letters in his neat print on and off for an hour and a half, trying to convince himself to just do it.  Bucky would be easy to talk to—he knew this logically and yet he couldn’t bring himself to dial more than the first four digits.  He told himself it was because of the increased workload as he’d received a few commissions in the days since their last interaction, but that would have been a lie.

 

Finally he sucked it up and called at 11:05pm, well aware of the late hour but also that Bucky (and Nat, he presumed) would most likely still be closing up.

 

“‘Sup, Steve!” Bucky greeted cheerfully.  He sounded much more relaxed, most likely a result of not being on the clock anymore.

 

“I was just thinking about you,” he continued after Steve’s returned greeting and the universe pressed pause for a moment. “Well, uh, wondering what you thought about the other version.”

 

Steve didn’t allow himself to read into it more than was necessary (liar) and he swallowed hard to pick up his end of the conversation.

 

“It’s legendary,” said Steve and they both laughed, easing his nerves.  Something about it felt right. “I felt bad for hogging it so I was going to ask if you wanted it back.  I thought about stopping by tomorrow.”

 

“It’s not hogging, man,” Steve heard the shuffling of paper money and coins in the background and Bucky counting rapidly under his breath he finished his sentence.  He waited for Bucky to continue. “I’m just glad you’re enjoying it, but I wouldn’t mind playing it in the store now that you mention it.”

 

“Cool.  So I’ll plan on seeing you tomorrow?”

 

“Actually--” the sound of a safe door shutting and locking came through, then a soft sigh, “could I swing by tonight?  Since I’m about to head home.”

 

Steve couldn’t believe he’d heard that particular string of words from Bucky and had to clear his throat to get his voice back, glancing around at the messy drawing table in the middle of the living room.  He wasn’t really prepared for guests—all he had in the fridge was beer and water wasn’t it?  He had no idea what the pantry was like—but he guessed Bucky wouldn’t be staying for too long.

 

Some part of him hoped he wouldn’t, if only for the excuse not to make an idiot out of himself (though the rest of him, down to his very nerve endings, was screaming for him to be around).

 

“Sure, yeah,” he stammered. “It’s great, I mean that’s great--fine--well, anyway, I’m close by.”

 

“Sure you don’t mind?  I know it’s late.”  He couldn’t detect any hint of apology in Bucky’s voice but he didn’t care if it had been two-thirty in the morning; he’d still say he didn’t mind.

 

“Nah, I was still up working.  I’m on Rose Avenue, in the first apartment complex after Marigold.  In 5G.”

 

“Oh, great.  See you in ten, cool?”

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

Steve rushed around, tidying up the kitchen and living room—for no real reason, as they weren’t incredibly untidy except for the table, which he’d just moved to when four short knocks sounded on the door.  He checked his watch, previously neglected.  It had been twelve minutes.  Shit.  He shoved the remaining pieces under a few others, hoping Bucky wouldn’t be observant enough to pick them out amid the pile, and padded over to the door, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.

 

He opened the door to find Bucky in a leather jacket, dark pants and his boots, hair back in the ponytail again.  He looked as relaxed and relieved as he had sounded, a smile wide across his face.  Steve didn’t think it was possible to get tired of looking at him.

 

“Sorry ‘bout the short notice,” Bucky said, accepting the beer Steve handed him.

 

Steve grinned.  He felt nervous with the warmth coursing through him.

 

“No problem.  I haven’t even had the chance to call,” he gestured to the art table, only a half-lie. “Actually, it’s in my player now.”

 

He lifted the cover but stopped when Bucky said, “Wait.”

 

He turned to look at him and found Bucky shrugging out of his jacket.  He was mesmerized as he watched him, eyes drawn to the silver metal of Bucky’s left arm, glinting as he shifted out of the jacket arm.  Most of it was exposed by the T-shirt he wore and was made of many individual plates and appeared highly maneuverable as Bucky moved smoothly.  Steve caught the glimmer of a metal ball-chain around his neck that he figured belonged to dog tags, tucked under the front of the shirt.

 

“We should use it as an excuse to listen before I snatch it away again,” he said as he sat on the sofa.  Though unexpected, Steve wasn’t disappointed in his decision to stay, and the way Bucky made himself comfortable made him feel good. “Do you mind?”

 

“No,” Steve’s voice came out rough and he cleared his throat—to not much avail. “No, I don’t mind.  That’s a good idea.”

 

He placed the needle just at the end of track A2’s groove and sat next to Bucky as the beginning of “The Very Thought of You” sounded.  It set his heartbeat into a calmer rhythm, as if he could relax now that it muffled the sound of that thudding against his ribcage.

 

“To Billie and new friends,” Bucky said, holding up his beer bottle.

 

“Billie and new friends.” Steve echoed, still feeling warm before he even took a drink.

 

They clinked together their bottles and let the tones of the early fifties wash over them.  Bucky’s eyes closed pretty early into the song and Steve used the excuse to watch him, taking in his features—chiseled jawline, those broad shoulders and the slope of the dog tags’ chain over the collarbones curving above the t-shirt collar, the hair against his forehead.  Steve chalked it up to the artist in him but he knew the actual reason was more complicated than that.  Or simpler, depending on perspective.

 

It took him a second to realize Bucky’s eyes were back open and focused on him.

 

“Steve, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” he started, leaning forward and swirling the remaining beer in his bottle around, “but I’ve never been this comfortable around someone right off the bat.  Maybe before the Army but that part of me’s gone.”

 

He cleared his throat.

 

“This sounds crazy but it almost feels like I’ve met you before.  Has ever since I first saw you in the store.”

 

He dropped his gaze to the bottle, dragging his index finger through the condensation beading on the glass, a motion Steve watched intently. “You ever get that with anybody?”

 

“Yeah,” he grinned to hide his nervousness but it felt as though it just made his shaking even more noticeable. “Maybe we knew each other in another life.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Steve couldn’t read the look on Bucky’s face but he wasn’t given much time, either, as the song ended.  To his surprise (again), Bucky stayed seated but used the new song to transition into a different subject.

 

“You’re the first person outside Nat and my Army buddies who’s seen my arm,” he said before swigging more, his knee knocking against Steve’s (whether intentionally or unintentionally was beyond him). “I figured you’d be cool about it but it’s always good to know when you’re right.  I always kinda expect the worst.”

 

“People are jerks about it?” Steve shook his head. “You’re not a guy I’d try to piss off.  But even if you were, I sure as hell wouldn’t use that as a reason.”  He drank another big gulp of his beer.

 

“Because you’re a good person inside,” Bucky lifted his bottle in a second cheer. “I could tell, that’s why I lent you the record.”

 

“Well, I know what it’s like to be different.  Besides, it makes you look even more like you could kick their asses.”

 

Considering Steve hadn’t had Bucky’s strength to fend off bullies, who’d picked on sickly, young him as an easy target, he’d always challenged them to fights and had lost miserably every time, except for once.  That had been his biggest personal victory to date.  Maybe he could live vicariously through Bucky, who looked like he could eat bullies for breakfast.

 

Bucky laughed. “Yeah, I guess I could kick a few.  That’s what the guys who designed it for me planned for me to do, all because they were the cowards.”

 

He finished off the beer and let it hit the table with a clunk when setting it down.

 

“But I won’t bore you with that shit.”

 

He stood and removed the record from the turntable before slipping it into the cover effortlessly, as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

 

“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” said Steve, following suit and standing.

 

“Stop in tomorrow anyway, okay?” he replied and the crooked grin that made Steve’s spine shiver flashed over his face again.

 

He didn’t feel as guilty as he had before when he let his eyes linger on that smile, but probably out of all the practice he’d been getting.  Then, before he could intervene, Bucky turned toward the door and as he did, his eyes fell on the table full of drawings.

 

“Steve, man.” He said, setting down the record to pick up the ones on top, glancing at the others. “No wonder you’ve been in shows.”

 

Steve’s face flushed hot.  Normally Bucky’s behavior of helping himself was the type to annoy him but he was too nervous for any other emotion.

 

“I just got those—um, commissions, that’s a rough draft—they’re not really my best—” Luckily, for the both of them, Bucky interrupted his useless stammering.

 

“You’re one of the most interesting guys I’ve met, Steve,” he looked at a few more scattered across the surface.

 

Steve definitely didn’t imagine the way his gaze lingered on one in particular.  His stomach sank; anything but…  But then Bucky grabbed his record again, heading toward the door and Steve’s legs felt like lead as he followed.

 

“Thanks for making the move here easier.  I…”

 

He turned in the doorway and paused to lick his lips, teeth settling on the bottom for a split second.  He didn’t need to say it and yet Steve still knew he meant more than the move.  He stepped closer and lifted a hand to grip the door just above Steve’s, positioned on the doorknob.

 

Steve’s breath caught in his throat as he became acutely aware of Bucky’s own breath rolling across his neck and of the shorter space between them, closing as Bucky stepped even closer; but whatever he had been thinking about doing seemingly dissipated as he moved back into the hallway, hand falling back to his side.

 

“It’s hard to adjust back to life once you’ve gone through shit.  People like you help, though.”

 

“Glad to hear it.  You too.”  Wow.  Astounding choice of words, Rogers.

 

Steve felt frustrated at his inability to convey all the thoughts that swirled in his mind, but it was probably better he didn’t anyway.  He was grateful he’d finally made a local friend--which made the speed of his deepening feelings a little worrying--who seemed to like being around him as much, but his mind was still processing the fact that he’d echoed the feeling Steve had about him.  And which drawing had caught his attention?  Steve hoped against hope it hadn’t been one of the sketches of him but what else would have garnered extra attention?

 

“Take care, Steve.  See you Thursday?”

 

“I’ll be there.”

 

Steve shut the door after Bucky turned the hallway corner, watching as his figure retreated.  He used the excuse of potential unexpected company to tidy up the art table (hands still shaking), and with abject horror realized one of the sketches scattered in eyesight was, in fact, one of the compilations of sketches of Bucky.  It couldn’t have been just one--no, not with Steve Rogers’ luck.  It just had to be a series of sketches.  There were two of Natasha on it, luckily, and one of Peggy, but those didn’t count when there were three hundred (okay, six) of Bucky.

 

He retreated to the shower, trying to wash away the self-annoyance, and immediately went to bed afterward.  He replayed the tiny last snippet of their conversation for any clues Bucky had been freaked out.  He found none that he could pinpoint, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t missing something his brain had repressed.

 

He went to sleep frustrated with himself and nervous about the next day.


	4. How'd You Like That?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky surprises Steve and plans are made. Big plans. Totally NOT date plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I have a thing for Natasha betting on Steve & Bucky. Hey, what can I say? A lady's gotta have a hobby.

Steve was the second person to arrive for lunch at the small cafe in the center of town.  He spotted Peggy’s neatly-curled hair and as he sat, noted the offending streak of grey hair tucked behind one ear, stark against the rest of the dark brown.  She smiled as she caught him looking.

 

“As I said, one Stark’s a handful enough,” she unfolded her napkin and draped it over her lap. “With two, I feel completely mad.”

 

She took a long drink of her mimosa in preparation for her next point.  Only Steve could differentiate between her drinking styles after many years of friendship.

 

“Now, I’d like for you to imagine Howard, but in child form.  So, Tony may be the culprit most of the time, but really it’s all Howard’s fault for encouraging it.”

 

Steve shook his head, having had his fair share of dealings with Peggy’s coworker; for a time he’d worked for him before he decided Howard was the handful he didn’t feel like dealing with.  Peggy had more patience to continually put him in his place--more like she got a kick out of it--so she’d stayed on at Stark Industries.

 

“But how are you?  You look happier than I’ve seen in a while,” she peered at him over the top of her glass.

 

“I’ve been working on commissions,” Steve tried to keep his voice even. “Discovered a new hangout.  Record shop nearby.”

 

“Oh?” Peggy raised her eyebrows. “Sounds interesting.  I know your collection is happy.”

 

“Actually, yeah.  I never had Billie Holiday stuff before but a guy there recommended it.  Now I’m wondering how I ever survived without her.”

 

Peggy’s smile turned into a full-on grin and she poured more mimosa for Steve.

 

“She’s lovely.  I need to thank this music recommender for giving you better taste.”

 

“Excuse me--”

 

“You’ve made a new friend, I assume,” she interrupted, folding her arms to lean on her elbows. “Sounds like he’s right up your alley.”

 

Steve marveled but simultaneously felt a little annoyed at her ability to zone in on things so well.  Right up his alley?  What was that supposed to mean?

 

“Yeah, he is,” he answered a little too quickly before adding, “just a new friend.  He works there, we just got to talking.”

 

“Good, you need more local friends,” her smile tilted with a hint of mischief. “I know you like being alone, but being alone too much can be bad too.”

 

“Actually, I’ve gotta meet him sometime today.” He said somewhat defensively.

 

“Is that so?  Well, I won’t keep you waiting.  I’ve got a meeting with the HQ director to discuss transferring here again.  I’ve got my eye on building another base.”

 

They enjoyed their food and plenty of mimosas, chatting about relatively insignificant things until it was time to stand, leaving their tips and signed receipts before stepping into the bright, cold afternoon.

 

“Don’t ‘just a friend’ me, either.  I can tell by the way you look when you talk about him.”  She didn’t allow him a word in edgewise. “I expect more details to judge him by next time.”

 

“ _Anyway_ , good luck with the transfer.”

 

“You know I’m right!” She laughed as she waved and climbed into her rental car, speeding off.

 

Steve drove to Revolutions, though not sure if they were open yet.  The sign wasn’t lit up, but he noticed Bucky by the front counter, restocking the albums on the displays.  He thought he might get a buddy exception so he approached the door anyway and knocked with the tip of his key.  His hunch was right and Bucky threw open the door with a grin, ushering him inside.  It was mostly dark aside from the window and the two lights in the back of the store; as a result shadows danced across their faces, cut by the sunlight streaming through the glass.

 

“Do you let all your customers in early?” Steve plucked a few albums out of the new shipment pile and organized them on the wire rack.

 

“Only the ones who offer free labor.  As it so happens, today’s shipment day.  And that means you’ve got something somewhere in here.  Just gotta get to it.”

 

“Oh,” Steve felt flustered. “Same price as the other?”

 

“No, on the house.” Bucky paused in arranging briefly, looking up at him. “I wanted you to have your own copy.  Not that your collection’s not great, but I dunno.  If you don’t want it--”

 

“Of course I do,” Steve interjected, cheeks burning. “I just wasn’t expecting--at all--”

 

“Good.  That was the plan.”

 

Bucky laughed and pulled out the vinyl in question.  It looked identical to the one he’d lent Steve (though Steve had no idea why it would be different).  It made him feel even closer to Bucky, but it could’ve been something he just did for new friends.  Initiating them in the art of Billie Holiday’s live performances.  (Right--how likely was _that_?  But he refused to get his hopes up.)

 

“Had to look a little longer than usual for it, but I finally found a near-mint.  I want you to get as much enjoyment as I have outta mine.”

 

Then again, maybe it wasn’t a typical thing if he’d had to spend more effort than usual to find a copy.  He held the vinyl out, eyes locking with Steve’s.  A smile Steve couldn’t interpret tugged at the corner of Bucky’s lips but he tried not to stare at them.  When he grasped the vinyl neither moved as they shared a seemingly silent understand of holding onto the record, the lifeline between them.  Time seemed to stretch out into eternal nothingness, something no longer relevant to their lives or anything Steve was remotely worried about.

 

“Um,” he began stupidly.

 

“D’you--” Bucky started.

 

“I don’t remember placing a help wanted ad.”

 

A dry, deep but feminine voice cut off the sentences, left hanging open between their voices and they broke apart finally.  Steve clasped the record to his chest while Bucky’s hand dropped to a record inside the box.

 

“Natasha,” Bucky greeted in the same deadpan tone she’d used. “You’re here early.  First time since we’ve known each other, isn’t it?”

 

“Don’t pull that crap, James.”

 

“James…?” Had he lied about his name?  Was he worried Steve would stalk him?  Maybe he really _was_ worried about somebody from his old life finding him.

 

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” Bucky cast a wry look at him (and there went Steve’s last theory).  “Nat met me when I was in the service.  You didn’t think Bucky was a name a mother would seriously give her kid, do you?  Mine apparently had a thing for presidents.”

 

Steve laughed; Natasha smirked (so, the usual by now).

 

“Well, no.  It’s just now you’re three different names to me.”

 

“Hm, well, sorry to interrupt this little store meeting and all,” Natasha shook a paper bag. “Got a bagel here I gotta go enjoy, so you two can get back to your, uh--gift exchange.”

 

She marched off toward the tiny office and shut the door with a loud _click_ , the blinds flipping shut instantly (pointedly).

 

“Before you think she’s giving you a hard time, she’s always like that,” Bucky snorted, bending again to grab more records.  He placed them on the display more quickly than before. “I really prefer Bucky.”

 

“Bucky it is.”

 

They stood for a moment in silence, seemingly out of words (or at least the ones Steve felt like he could voice).

 

“Thanks.  I don’t really know what to say,” Steve finally managed. “You sure I don’t need to pay?”

“Well, on second thought, yeah, but on one condition.”

 

Steve swallowed hard but his throat still felt tight.

 

“Name it.”

 

“Drinks at that new place on Seaside.  The Blue Diamond or whatever.  Bartender’s a regular here so it’ll be guaranteed cheap but good, at least that’s what he tells me.”

 

“Yeah, sounds great.”

 

“Call me when you wanna go.” He clapped Steve on the upper arm and Steve offered a shaky smile.

 

“How soon is too soon?” he asked before he could stop himself.

 

“Never too soon to see you again.”

 

_What?_  There was no way he’d heard Bucky right but the other man’s smile never wavered and he hadn’t sounded sarcastic.  Steve couldn’t envision a world in which Bucky had actually taken an interest in him more than he’d previously thought, but it seemed to be happening before his eyes.

 

“What about Saturday?” Bucky continued.

 

“That sounds awesome.” Nope.  He definitely wasn’t dreaming.

 

“Great.  Give me a call at the usual time.”

 

Steve felt stunned the whole drive home and immediately on arrival, he placed the record on the turntable.  He was sure it’d be a while before he listened to anything else, so he took a seat at the art table and set out to draw to the tunes he could sing in his sleep.  After a few warm-up sketches he settled on what was quickly becoming his favorite subject.  He worked on sketches of him in the office, leaning back with his feet up on the desk and fingers laced behind his head.

 

He thought about the things Bucky might think and/or say if he saw the level of detail in the drawings.  The laced-up boots and light playing across the dog tags, which he drew over the shirt this time, hair tucked behind Bucky’s left ear, the different plates of the arm he had only seen for a few moments.  This time he totally left Natasha out of his subjects, though he could picture her smirking clearly.  She knew, Peggy knew...was he that obvious?  Or was Bucky around Natasha?

 

_Not a chance,_ he chided.  Peggy had always been able to read him easily, and Natasha was just that way, according to Bucky (though Steve had suspected a smidge of bullshit in that attempt at reassurance).

 

“Never too soon to see you again” replayed in Steve’s mind over and over--the way Bucky had said it, the inflection of his voice.  It had been spoken more softly, maybe because of Natasha’s presence (even as she seemingly ignored them, tucked away in the office), and Steve had just barely resisted stepping in closer under the pretense of hearing him better.  Naturally he started worrying about lack of inhibition in terms of saying what was on his mind if he had too much at the Blue Diamond “or whatever.”

 

He’d worry about that when it came.  At least he was improving in his acceptance of the inevitable.

 

-o-

 

“When’s your date again?”

 

Bucky jumped, hand going to the knife tucked away at his waistband on instinct as Natasha snuck up behind him.

 

“You know not to do that.”

 

“My bad,” she snorted. “You also know I’d kick your ass before you could do anything.”

 

“Point.  What’s your _other_ point?”

 

She hoisted herself up onto the counter, pressing her palms onto it between her knees.

 

“My point is, when is your next date with Stevie?”

 

“It’s not a date.  You and Sam conspiring?”

 

“Even better.  We’re betting.”

 

He straightened, careful to hold the record in hand carefully with the left, in case he snapped it.

 

“Uh?”

 

“He thought you would ask him out within a week.  I won.” She announced proudly. “You gotta step your game up, though.  He’s obviously into you too.”

 

“I don’t need this middle-school crap,” he grumbled. “Especially not from you.”

 

“I’m just trying to help you,” she waved a hand, “and my wallet, but that’s just a bonus.  Mostly for your lonely soul.”

 

“Lonely, my ass.”

 

“That too.”

 

“Natalia, please find something to do.”

 

-o-

 

“Time to pay up, sucker,” Natasha announced over the phone later that afternoon.

 

“Damn,” Sam didn’t bother keeping the disappointment out of his voice. “But really, he already did it?”

 

“We need to stop underestimating him,” Nat’s own voice turned serious. “He’s obviously on it.  Steve was in the store when I got there.  We weren’t even open yet, but he and Bucky were having a _moment_.”

 

“Seriously?  A moment?” he laughed. “The hell is that?”

 

“I dunno, both holding a record like they were on the sinking Titanic or something.  It looked real dramatic, but from what I understand I think Bucky was a casanova before the service.  I’m sure he’s still got got some tricks.”

 

“That’s a funny thought,” Sam said, then suddenly, “Wait--he’s calling me.  I’ll call you back to settle the bet.”

 

“Yeah, Wilson, you’re not getting out of it this time.”

 

-o-

 

Sam answered the other line to be greeted by a single request (without the inflection of a question).

 

“You’re coming with me Saturday.” Bucky’s voice was a little tighter than usual, and Sam wondered if he could hear the smirk in his own voice in his playing-dumb reply.

 

“What’s Saturday?”

 

“Sam.”

 

“Ohhh, _the_ date.”

 

“NOT a date.  How is it a date if you’re there?”

 

“You have so much to learn, man,” Sam shook his head, even though Bucky couldn’t see it. “I know you’re getting used to the real world again and all that, but you once played the game.  I don’t think they got that part of you.”

 

Bucky paused in silence, and Sam was sure he could hear him drumming his fingers on a tabletop.

 

“I dunno about that,” he finally replied. “If you really don’t wanna go--”

 

“Are you kidding?  I’m dying to see Bucky Barnes on a date!”

 

“It’s.  Not.  A.  Date.  Casual hanging out.  Don’t push your luck.”

 

“Am I coming over early to do your hair?  Pick out your outfit?”

 

“I’m gonna--”

 

“--enjoy the shit outta yourself.” Sam raised his voice over Bucky’s. “ _We_ are gonna have a great time, regardless.  But I got a feeling you and Steve will be justfine.”

 

-o-


	5. How'd You Like That?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Totally-Not-A-Date has arrived and Sam meets Steve.

“You ready to cash in that drinking promise?” Bucky greeted when Steve called him at “the usual” time on Saturday.

 

“You know it,” Steve tried his best not to sound like he felt, full of nerves and hopes. “At least I guess I can tear myself away from my busy schedule long enough.”

 

“See you in a few, Steve,” Bucky said after a laugh, then a question that caught him off-guard and immediately set the worries rushing through his mind. “Do you mind if I bring a friend?  He came by to visit and I think you’ll get along.”

 

“Oh, sure, yeah, that’s fine,” he stammered, wondering if Bucky was trying to bring a buffer--someone to use as an excuse to leave early.  He attempted to reassure himself with the theory that Bucky wasn’t that type of person.

 

“Great.  See ya.”

 

Steve spent way too long getting ready but still reached the bar first.  He found it small but inviting.  The bar counter took up a considerable amount of what would’ve otherwise been decent real estate, but an area behind it opened up into a larger room, full of tables, chairs, and a section of empty dance floor.  A small raised stage stood in the corner for singers and bands.

 

Blue lights had been strung up everywhere, draping from the ceiling and glowing from the walls, but it wasn’t cheesy or overdone.  Steve wondered if he should look for him in there but he decided he’d better stick to the front room, in case Bucky thought he’d been stood up.

 

It wasn’t long before Bucky arrived with his friend.  His leather jacket was slung over his right shoulder and the dim lighting bounced off his exposed arm, and he looked wonderful.  Steve wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to go without saying or doing something to give him away but it didn’t matter at this moment.  Bucky sat at the stool next to Steve’s and immediately ordered a double whiskey for both of them.

 

The third man sat beside Bucky and ordered his own drink, a beer.  He was leaner but just as muscular as Bucky and wore a thin goatee with closely-cut hair.  His warm, friendly smile suggested mischief--and Steve felt a little guilty for only just now taking his eyes off Bucky long enough to really acknowledge him.

 

“Sam, this is Steve, uh--?” Bucky faltered as they simultaneously realized he had never actually properly introduced himself with his last name.

 

“Rogers,” Steve stuck his hand out across Bucky’s chest, which Sam accepted with a grin and return of the firm shake.

 

During the interaction Steve didn’t notice Bucky’s eyes on him, but Sam did; he indicated only with a quick twist of the grin into a smirk, which Bucky did catch.

 

“Sam Wilson,” he replied, raising his beer in added cheers. “Good to meet you.  He won’t shut up about you.”

 

Steve’s face flushed hot and Bucky quickly switched topics, a little too loudly to be subtle.

 

“Sam’s another service buddy.  Armed Forces paratrooper, helped Nat and me get outta where we were.”

 

Bucky threw back a large gulp, eyed the low amount left in Steve’s glass, and ordered two more before getting a second beer for Sam (since it was definitely not a date). “We couldn’t have done it without him.  Only reason I put up with him.”

 

Sam laughed with a, “Thanks, feeling’s mutual.”

 

They chatted a bit longer about Bucky and Sam’s background, how the latter had lived some of his childhood years in this town and came back after his honorable discharge.  He’d convinced Nat and Bucky to move down as well, for which Steve felt indebted to Sam forever (and hoped it wouldn’t be too long before he could tell him why he was grateful).

 

After some time between drinks to let Sam catch up, Bucky ordered a third round for Steve and him while Sam refused the liquor (“always a beer guy after that last dance with tequila,” he shuddered and never offered to detail “that” time) and ordered his own third beer.  Their orders and tabs were getting pretty mixed up at this point, but they weren’t yet concerned.  Steve decided he liked this place, as well as the company--though he hadn’t had to think too hard on the company bit.

 

“Hey, I’m the one s’posed to be paying, for the record,” Steve said with mock indignance, only to make sure Bucky knew (and maybe to remind himself a little that this was really happening).

 

“Don’t worry, I got the first round and that one of Sam’s,” Bucky grinned, “but I told the bartender you’d get the rest.  You’re both on your own now.”

 

“You might regret that, he’s a heavyweight,” Sam chimed in, raising his eyebrows at Bucky, “if you couldn’t tell.”

 

He nodded at Steve, eyeing his near-empty glass.  “But apparently so are you.”

 

He shrugged. “I can rack a tab.”

 

“You must be looking to bankrupt yourself then,” Sam laughed. “What’s this deal about you paying, anyway?  You win a bet for once in your life, Buck?”

 

Bucky met the remark with a scoff.  “You wish, Wilson.  Just ‘cause you have a career in losing bets to me…”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.  So, Steve, you’re just a nice guy, or…?”

 

Steve detected a bit of consistency in the friends Bucky picked and their more...straightforward personality traits.

 

“That’s totally it.”

 

The three talked more, then fell into silence as a band took the stage in the side room.  Steve was starting to feel spinny by the fourth whiskey and took his time with it.  He could picture Peggy’s smug expression as he thought of her reaction to it all.

 

Someone started a conversation again, in which he participated but didn’t feel invested.  He was at the right level of inebriated and the right level of buried in his own thoughts to offer little more than the occasional agreement and minimal input.  He felt a little guilty, but a majority of his guilt stemmed from the creativity his imagination was showing.

 

Sam stood at the end of the band’s second song and placed down his cash and tip.

 

“Got an early start tomorrow,” he said, shaking Steve’s hand again.

 

“Great to meet you, Sam.”

 

He and Bucky exchanged brief discussion of someone they knew and their see-you-laters, and something Sam whispered to Bucky which earned a punch to the arm.  Then it was Steve and Bucky and a bar filling up with more and more people, but all Steve could think about was what he should say next.  Luckily he didn’t have to wonder too long.

 

“So, how long have you lived here?” Bucky asked once he’d finished off his own fourth whiskey (and all right, maybe he had one up on Steve because Steve hadn’t even reached half of his fourth yet).

 

“How’d you know?”

 

“You don’t sound like everyone else here.  Spending time in a lot of different places gave me a good ear.”

 

“Yeah, I see that,” Steve grinned, pleased Bucky would want to know something about him.

 

It and the fact that he’d stayed when Sam left reaffirmed what Steve knew to be true: that Bucky wanted to spend time with him and that he wasn’t just hoping for something that was false.  Something in Sam’s last grin had suggested he knew of Steve’s hopes.

 

“I’m from Brooklyn originally.  I grew up there but left after my mom died.  Needed a new place to belong.”

 

He finished off his drink at last and crunched an ice cube, gesturing to the bartender for the tab.

 

“My dad fought overseas in ‘91, actually, and died over there.  My mom had been sad for a long time and I didn’t make it easier.  I was pretty sick for half my childhood and all sorts of great stuff.”

 

He shook his head, casting a glimpse at Bucky’s silver hand, wrapped around the glass carefully, the pressure seemingly light.  Steve briefly wondered if he’d ever captured that in his drawings of him.

 

“I know you didn’t ask for all that, sorry.  Like you said...it’s easy to talk to you.” He swallowed another ice cube.

 

“I like knowing things about you, Steve.” He wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the drop in pitch of Bucky’s voice--hard to tell with the music and other patrons’ conversations. “It makes me feel like I’m not so weird for telling you my life stories.”

 

“So you’re calling me weird.”

 

“Only if it makes me weird too,” he cocked a crooked grin, different from the ones Steve had seen on him before. “I think anyone with an arm like this could be considered weird, if it makes ya feel better.”

 

“So it gives you superpowers?”

 

“You could say that.” He sounded less willing to talk about it than before so Steve quickly diverted, even though he didn’t feel as skilled as Bucky in that area.

 

“You feeling anything?”

 

“A bit.  How ‘bout you, unexpected heavyweight?”

 

“Same.  I took advantage of being able to lift anything more than a glass of water nowadays by working out, I guess it sped up my metabolism.  Don’t talk shit.”

 

Bucky laughed.

 

“Not talking shit, it’s impressive.  Though,” he raised his voice in response to the band’s fourth song, louder and much more up-tempo, “whaddya think about getting out of here?”

 

“I think it sounds great.”

 

Steve figured the din around them would disguise the shaking in his voice.  They headed out into the night, Steve’s legs feeling hard to control.  They walked back to his apartment in near silence, cut by the occasional whistle by Bucky.  His nerves were preventing him from making conversation again, but he wasn’t sure where to pick back up anyway.  Asking anything seemed like it was done just to provide background to the walk and he didn’t want shallowness when it came to Bucky.

 

Finally they made it and Steve dropped his keys only once while fumbling for the lock, but he didn’t miss the smirk that flew across his guest’s face.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.

 

When Bucky laughed he felt his breath roll against the back of his neck and shivered before he could stop it.  Somehow he made it to the couch without making a complete ass of himself.  Bucky settled beside him, clutching a bottle of water he’d grabbed from the fridge while Steve had been on his challenging journey to the sofa.

 

When did Steve Rogers ever think it would be a good idea to bring Bucky back when their inhibitions were low?

 

-o-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Sam approve of Steve? Of COURSE he approves, I mean, have you SEEN Steve?


End file.
